Kay's Chronicles
Copyright© 2026 by BoredAndHorny34
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Danny and Kay explore a dangerous new dynamic in this collection of hotwifing stories. From a competitive volleyball court to the anonymity of Comic-Con, Kay tests her power over men while Danny watches from the sidelines, battling a mix of jealousy and intense arousal. As boundaries blur and rules are broken, the couple navigates the thrill of exhibitionism and voyeurism, questioning if their relationship can withstand the heat of their evolving fantasies with teammates and masked strangers.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Fiction Cuckold Sharing Wife Watching Exhibitionism Masturbation Voyeurism Public Sex AI Generated
I have been dating Kay since my Junior year of college. After four years and one year of living together post-college, I am more in love with her than ever.
She is smart, funny, and on top of that, she’s a total hottie. She just turned 25. She has green eyes, long fiery red hair, stands 5’6”, and has a body that defies logic. She works out constantly, which has given her a flat, tight stomach and a tiny waist, but she is naturally blessed with big, perky tits, wide-set hips, thick legs, and a large, round, juicy ass.
She was actually famous for it at school. Long before I met her, I’d heard stories about “Kay’s Ass,” this girl with a “ghetto booty” the “PAWG” that all the jocks wanted to talk to. It is only because I was randomly paired with her as a chemistry tutor—and she just so happened to think my shy, geeky nature was “adorkable”—that she fell for me.
Kay is very active, always working out, always doing something. She is disciplined and naturally athletic. I keep myself in shape, but my physique is naturally leaner, closer to what most people would call skinny or nerdy, certainly not ripped. Kay is always trying to get me to join her at her intense gym classes, but I always make some excuse. I know I can’t keep up with her, and the thought of humiliating myself, stumbling and sweating next to her perfectly sculpted body, is enough to keep me away.
So two months ago, when she asked me to sign up for a social volleyball league with her, I immediately made some excuse. The idea of competing or even just moving athletically in front of strangers, and Kay, was too much.
She signed up anyway and has been going and having a blast. Twice a week, she comes home flushed, sweaty, and pretty drunk from “post-game drinks.” And twice a week, I get a treat: watching her swing that incredible ass out the door, encased in black spandex booty shorts.
She’s always telling me about how awesome her team is. She says, “They are such a great group of guys. So helpful and sweet. The whole league is awesome, really. We always have a blast.” She loves talking about Tyler and Omar, praising them as the “best guys on the team.” The fourth teammate, Ethan, she barely mentions, except to say he was “super nice, but too busy.”
A week ago, she was glowing as she described a recent game. “We had to get super physical with the other team to pull out a win! It was awesome, babe. You wouldn’t believe how much contact you make just trying to defend the net. The guys are just so good at being hands-on when they need to be, always grabbing me to stabilize me.” She chuckled, completely oblivious to the suggestive meaning of her own words. “Honestly, T is so sweet,” she told me once, “He’s always making sure I’m okay after a hard game. I get this horrible lower back tension sometimes, and he’s totally a pro at helping me stretch it out. He’s a lifesaver!”
She is the only girl on the team, but I was never worried. I know she is loyal to me and would never betray me. But this week, one of the three guys—Ethan, the original fourth teammate—can’t make it. Kay explains that Ethan had to drop out of the league because his new job required too much travel, meaning he couldn’t commit to the twice-weekly games.
On the day of the game, Kay comes rushing through the door, throwing her gym bag down. “Babe, we have a crisis! I just got a text from Omar. The guy who was supposed to fill Ethan’s spot—Matt—just had a family emergency. We have zero subs. We forfeit tonight if we don’t find someone!”
“Babe, please, please, please fill in for us!” she pleads, dropping to her knees and grabbing my hands. “We need a fourth player! We can’t forfeit this week. This is the semi-finals, Danny! If we win this, we go to the championship game next week. We actually have a real chance of winning the whole league! You’re athletic enough, come on!”
I shake my head, already feeling the dread. “K, you know I hate competitive sports, and I don’t know how to play volleyball. I’ll just embarrass myself.”
Her face falls, replaced by a look of sharp disappointment. “But Danny, you never do anything active with me anymore! You always make an excuse to bail on the gym, and now you won’t even play one silly game for your own girlfriend? Tyler and Omar would do anything for me, they’d quit their jobs to play, and you can’t even say yes to one night?”
The guilt lands squarely on my chest. I rub my neck. “That’s not fair, Kay. I just don’t want to mess up your team.”
She sighs dramatically, then deploys the secret weapon: the pout. Her green eyes widen and she bites her lip, tilting her head. “Please, Danny? We’ve worked so hard all season, I can’t let the team down by forfeiting. Plus ... I really want to show off for you. Come on.”
I assume she means her jump serve or her killer spike. She thrives on competition, on being the athletic star while I watch from the sidelines. It seems innocent enough. The familiar, pathetic surge of helplessness washes over me. I can never deny her when she looks at me like that.
“Fine. Fine, Kay. One game.”
She squeals in delight and springs up, wrapping her legs around my waist in a tight jump hug. My hands shoot up to cup the two massive globes of her ass, the sleek, cold lycra of her shorts sliding seductively under my warm palms.
She purrs, pressing her hips into me. “Yes! You are the best boyfriend in the world!” she whispers, nipping my earlobe. “I promise ... I’ll make it so worth your while when we get home tonight.”
Her perfect cheeks clench powerfully under my fingers. The sheer effortlessness of her athleticism, the incredible way her body feels against mine—it is a reminder of exactly why I would do anything for her, even embarrass myself in front of jocks. I kiss her deeply before she finally lets go.
I pull on my generic basketball shorts, then pick up the team t-shirt Kay had surprised me with earlier that afternoon. “I got you an XL just to be safe!” she’d said, though a Large would have fit better. It is a vibrant electric blue, the team name—”The Spikers”—emblazoned across the chest in bold white font, with a logo of a volleyball surrounded by aggressive lightning bolts.
I pull it over my head. It is stiff, the cheap cotton scratching slightly against my skin. The fold lines from the packaging form a distinct grid across my chest, screaming “brand new.” I look in the mirror and sigh. The sleeves are boxy, flaring out and making my arms look even thinner than usual. I look like a tourist, a fan who had bought the merch but never played the game.
Kay, in contrast, looks like a veteran. She digs her jersey out of her gym bag—she claims washing it too often is bad luck. The electric blue has faded to a softer sky blue in places, and the white lightning bolts on the logo are cracked and peeling from use. The fabric has lost all its stiffness, hanging soft and heavy, draped over her curves.
She has customized it, too, cutting the neckline into a wider scoop that teases her collarbones and tying a knot at the small of her back to eliminate any slack. It doesn’t just fit her; it looks like it has been molded to her body over three months of sweat, victories, and post-game hugs. She pulls it on, the worn cotton clinging instantly to her chest and stomach. Then come the shorts.
God. They are painted on. The perfect outline of her thong pressed against her cheeks clearly visible.
As we walk to the car, I give her a firm smack on her ass to watch it jiggle. She yelps and spins around, playfully slapping my arm. “Stop that! You behave today, mister,” she says, smiling. “You know, I didn’t say anything before, but I think you’ll really like the warm-ups before the games.”
“Oh yeah, why is that?” I ask, still staring at her ass.
She pauses by the hallway mirror, turning to look at her own backside. She subtly hikes the black fabric higher, exposing just a sliver more of the pale curve of her lower cheeks, then catches my eye in the glass and gives me a slow, wicked wink. “Oh, you’ll see,” she says, smiling, and puts an extra swing in her hips.
We get to the gym and meet her teammates, Omar and Tyler. Tyler is impossible to miss. He stands about six-foot-two with a build that belongs in a museum. He has thick, wavy dark hair, dark eyes that seem to naturally sparkle with confidence, and a physique that looks carved out of marble. He is wearing the same electric blue ‘Spikers’ t-shirt I have on, but he has completely butchered it. The sleeves are gone, and the sides are cut so deep they are practically nonexistent. The fabric hangs loosely from his shoulders, exposing almost his entire upper body—the ripple of his lats, the serrated muscles over his ribs, and the deep cuts of his obliques. With his broad chest tapering down to a V-shaped torso, he looks less like a casual volleyball player and more like a Grecian statue that decided to put on gym shorts.
Omar stands next to him, creating a striking contrast. He’s shorter, maybe five-ten, but dense with muscle. He’s a handsome Hispanic guy in his early twenties, with deep tan skin and a thick, solid neck. His shoulders are wide and blocky, and he carries himself with a low center of gravity. He doesn’t have the lanky build of a typical spiker; he looks like a middleweight boxer or a fighter, someone used to taking hits and hitting back harder.
To my surprise, despite looking like the cover of a fitness magazine, Tyler immediately undercuts his intimidating appearance. He bounds over to us, leading with a goofy, welcoming grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and shakes my hand enthusiastically, like an old friend. “Hey, man! Danny, right? Finally!” Tyler beams, shaking my hand with a grip that is firm but welcoming. “Kay never shuts up about you. Seriously, every practice it’s ‘Danny this’ and ‘Danny that.’ We were starting to think you were a myth!”
Omar steps up, clapping me on the shoulder with a grin. “For real, bro. She’s always bragging about you. ‘My boyfriend the genius,’ she calls you. Glad you could finally come out and save our asses tonight. We were seriously panicked about forfeiting.”
“Yeah, huge relief,” Tyler adds, looking genuinely grateful. “We really appreciate you stepping up, man. Welcome to the squad.” He then immediately turns and pulls Kay into a huge, friendly hug. It’s just a “team” hug, but his hands splay wide on her lower back, his fingertips stretching down far enough to just brush the top of her ass. He picks her up and spins her around as she shrieks with laughter.
I watch them, feeling a sudden, sharp prickle of unease hits me. They seem ... incredibly comfortable with each other. It feels a bit too touchy for casual teammates, the way he holds her a second longer than necessary, the way her body seems to naturally mold against his hard frame. But then I force myself to shake it off. They’ve been playing together for months, sweating, winning, losing side-by-side. Of course they’re close. It’s just team spirit, that intense bond athletes get. I’m just being the jealous outsider reading too much into high-adrenaline friendship.
“Kay, show your boyfriend Tyler’s grip!” Omar says.
Tyler shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “Ah, Omar, man, don’t. It’s nothing.”
“Oh, T, come on,” Kay pouts, stepping close to him and putting a hand on his massive bicep. “Babe, you gotta see this. Please, T? Show Danny how strong you are. Just for me.”
She gives him the green-eyed innocent pout that I can never resist, and he visibly melts. “Ugh, fine, K,” he sighs, giving in. “It’s just a stupid party trick, but check it.” He grabs two 20lb medicine balls, one in each hand, and just palms them, lifting them off the rack.
“Holy shit,” I say, “That’s crazy, how did you do that?”
“Just got a gift, I guess,” Tyler says, friendly, but his eyes linger on Kay for just a half-second too long. “Unnaturally strong grip. Good for ... well, handling the ball. Maybe even something bigger than basketballs.” He laughs and shoots Kay a look. Kay blushes and bites her lip at the implication.
We get to the court. Kay’s shorts have already crept up, the bottom of each of her perfect ass cheeks hanging out. She doesn’t adjust them, seemingly not even noticing. “Ugh, T, my back is so tight,” she complains, bending over and rubbing her lower back. “Can you help me with that stretch?”
“You know it!” Tyler says, all friendliness. They slip into the routine instantly, moving with the careless ease of repetition. Tyler steps in behind her, planting his feet wide to create a stable base, and Kay backs up until she is mere inches from him, adjusting her stance to align perfectly with his hips. It is clear they have done this dozens of times before—a practiced, habitual ritual between teammates.
He’s just trying to help, I can tell. But as she bends, her ass lifts and pushes back, putting it on perfect display right in front of him, encased in that thin black spandex. Tyler tries to be respectful, keeping his eyes up for a split second, but he loses the battle. His gaze drops and locks onto the curve of her glutes with a wide-eyed, stunned appreciation. It doesn’t feel malicious; it feels like he’s just a guy short-circuited by how incredible she looks.
Seeing him hypnotized by her right in front of me sends a thrilling, shameful wave through my body. This is the feeling. Seeing my girlfriend reduce this massive jock to a captivated mess—knowing that she is mine and that he is losing his mind over her—it’s an addictive, raw sense of pride. He swallows, just once, before putting his hands on her hips to “spot” her.
She shoots a quick, electric glance my way—checking to see if I’m watching—then starts to slowly bend over. My stomach clenches. I watch, frozen. This is just ... camaraderie. He’s just helping. So why is my stomach in knots? She starts to wiggle her ass back and forth, her cheeks brushing against his shorts.
“Thaaaaat’s it,” he says, his voice a little strained. “Make sure you really stretch it out.”
She starts to really jiggle her ass, her cheeks thrashing. She looks over at me, upside down, and gives me a quick, goofy “see-how-silly-this-is?” smile. Tyler’s face is a little red. His hands “accidentally” slip from her hips to the very top of her glutes, just to “stabilize” her. His massive, strong fingers are right there, on her ass. She stands up, slow and sensual.
“Thanks, T,” she says chipperly.
“Anytime, K,” he says, his voice a little thick. He gives her a quick, solid smack on the ass. “Great stretch, K! You’re good!”
As Tyler walks away, I am still mesmerized by the scene. It’s not until the ref blows a whistle that I snap out of it. We jog to the sidelines of the court and huddle up to talk strategy.
Tyler, being the tallest and strongest, takes the front left to dominate the net. Kay takes the front right; even though she’s the shortest on the team at 5’6”, her college experience and vertical leap make her a better blocker than Omar or me. Being slightly taller than Kay, but with zero experience, I’m tucked away in the back left corner next to Omar, ready to mostly stay out of the way.
We break and move into position. I look over at Kay as she jogs off the court to grab her water bottle. A tall, blond guy from the opposing team—someone she clearly knows—intercepts her. He smiles, not a polite stranger’s smile, but the familiar grin of someone who has shared inside jokes. He leans in close to say something, and before I can even process it, his arm slides casually around her waist, his hand resting familiarly on the curve of her hip. It looks habitual, automatic. Kay freezes for a split second. Her eyes dart to me, checking if I’m watching. Seeing that I am, she quickly, but gently, pushes his hand away. She whispers something to him, nodding her head in my direction. The guy looks up, his eyes locking onto mine across the court. He gives me a slow, assessing look—half-amused, half-challenging—before smirking and backing off with his hands raised in mock surrender. Kay jogs back to her spot, refusing to meet my gaze.
Kay stands in front of Omar, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet in anticipation of the serve. The movement sets her hips into a hypnotic rhythm, causing the exposed lower curves of her glutes to jiggle slightly with every shift of her weight. I glance over at Omar to check our spacing, but I see that his attention is definitely not on the game. His eyes are glued to her. He isn’t even pretending to watch the opposing server; he is completely fixated on the view of her ass directly in front of his face. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I hear him mutter, low and hungry, “Goddamn, she is thick as hell.”
Instead of anger, a strange, smug grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the exact same thing from the back corner. Seeing him mesmerized by what belongs to me sends a jolt of dark pride through my chest. Yeah, look all you want, buddy, I think, my eyes tracing the perfect heart shape of her backside. That’s mine.
The referee blows the whistle, and the ball is in play. I expect chaos, or at least to be the obvious weak link, but once the ball is moving, something clicks. The three of them are a well-oiled machine. Omar digs everything in the back row, his solid frame absorbing the hardest serves like they’re nothing. He pops the ball up perfectly to Kay every time. And Kay ... she transforms. The giggling, flirty girlfriend vanishes, replaced by a focused, intense athlete. She sets with soft, precise hands, feeding Tyler who hammers the ball down with terrifying power.
To my shock, I find myself getting swept up in the energy. I’m not just watching; I’m moving. I rotate, I cover my zone. At one point, a deflection comes rocketing toward the back corner. Instinct takes over. I dive, stretching my lanky frame out, and manage to get a fist under the ball just before it hits the floor. It pops up high and floaty over the net. The opposing team scrambles, expecting a hard spike, and the ball drops right in the center of their court for a point.
“YES! Danny!” Kay screams, rushing over to high-five me. Tyler and Omar clap me on the back.
“Nice save, man! That’s what I’m talking about!” Tyler yells, giving me a fist bump.
For a moment, the jealousy and the weirdness fade. I feel like part of the team. We are a unit. A cohesive, winning machine.
The game is a nail-biter. It’s the final play of the game, we are one point away from victory, and the opposing team’s player makes a diving save lofting the ball up. Kay calls it.
“T!” She yells, and sets it high for Tyler who leaps and spikes it right in front of the opposing team, ending the game.
We explode. The whistle blows, and the tension snaps into pure, adrenaline-fueled joy. Kay screams, a sound of pure victory, and turns to the nearest person—Tyler. She launches herself at him. It’s not sexual; it’s instinct. She jumps, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he catches her effortlessly.
For a second, they are just a tangle of electric blue jerseys and sweat. He spins her around, laughing, and she has her face buried in his neck, just screaming “We did it!” It looks ... wholesome. Like a movie scene.
But then I see the details. To hold her up, his massive hands are clamped tight on her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. As he spins, gravity does the work, and his hands slide down, finding the shelf of her ass to support her weight. It’s practical physics—he needs to hold her up—but visually, he is burying his fingers in her glutes.
“Great Set K!” Tyler yells, his voice booming with laughter.
“Great spike T!” Kay giggles, pulling back to look at him, her face flushed and radiant.
He stops spinning, but he doesn’t put her down immediately. They are chest-to-chest, breathing heavy, flushed with the win. He holds her there for a beat too long. I can see the bulge in his shorts pressing right against her lower stomach. It’s unmistakable. But the look on his face isn’t predatory. It’s just ... happy. He looks like a big kid who just won the lottery.
That’s what confuses me. If he was leering, I could be mad. If he was grinding, I could step in. But he’s just holding my girlfriend, vibrating with shared success, and his body is reacting biologically even if his mind is just celebrating. It feels innocent, which makes the fact that he’s hard against her feel strangely safe. Like it’s just a biological accident between friends that neither of them are acknowledging.
Finally, he lets her slide down. As her feet touch the floor, the friction of her body against his is undeniable. Her eyes go wide, a flicker of realization crossing her face as she feels him against her. She gasps softly.
“T!!” she says, but the tone is playful, almost breathless, rather than offended. She hits his chest lightly before jogging over to me.
Tyler turns to watch her jog away. He adjusts his shorts, not hiding the erection, but not flaunting it either. Just dealing with it.
“What was all that about?” I ask as we hug, my voice tight, fighting the confusing mix of jealousy and relief.
“Oh, nothing, babe! Just excited!” She beams, hugging me tight. “Come on, let’s go to the bar and celebrate!”
I hug her back, my mind reeling. It was an accident. He’s a nice guy. It feels safe ... so why does the image of his hands burying into her ass make my blood run hot?
She starts to jog toward the locker rooms, calling back over her shoulder, “Come on, you guys! Don’t be slow!”
“Oh, we’re coming, Kay,” Omar says with a low chuckle, planting his feet. “We just want to ... appreciate the form.”
She rolls her eyes, blushing, but she doesn’t stop. In fact, she seems to pick up the pace, adding a little extra bounce to her step. And God, does it bounce. With every stride, those heavy, perfect cheeks shudder under the black spandex, a hypnotic left-right-left rhythm that demands attention.
And it gets it. Around me, the gym has gone quiet. The game on the adjacent court has practically paused. Two guys near the net are just staring, slack-jawed. But what catches my eye is the blonde guy from the opposing team—the one who had his hand on her waist earlier—leans against the bleachers, towel around his neck, openly staring. He isn’t even trying to be subtle. His eyes are locked on her ass with a hungry, predatory focus, tracking the jiggle like a wolf tracking a deer. He catches me looking at him looking at her. Instead of looking away, he just curls his lip and gives a slow, respectful nod. A silent communication: You lucky bastard. I’d ruin her.
It’s a gauntlet of lust. At least five other guys are watching my girlfriend jog away, her ass devouring the fabric of those tiny shorts with every step. And the sickest part? I don’t step in front of them. I stand there with Omar and Tyler, just another spectator in the crowd, watching them undress her with their eyes. A dark, twisted knot of pride tightens in my stomach. Yeah. Look at her. Look at what you can’t have.
We head over to the locker room to change. As I change, a guy a few rows over makes a comment that catches my ear.
“Jesus. The redhead.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t know how she plays in those shorts without everything falling out. Not that I’m complaining.”
“Did you see her with the tall guy? Tyler? He was all over her after that last point.”
“Yeah, well, can you blame him? If I had a shot at that, I wouldn’t be hovering my hands either. I’d be gripping on for dear life.”
“What about the guy she was with? The skinny dude?”
“Boyfriend, I think? He didn’t look like he was gonna do anything about it. He was just standing there watching Tyler celebrate with her. Kinda sad, honestly. If that was my girl, no way I’m letting another dude handle her like that.”
“Maybe he likes it. Or maybe he just knows he can’t do anything about it. Tyler’s a beast.”
“She seemed pretty into it, though. Did you see the warm-ups? She was practically backing into him. I swear I saw him slip a finger under the waistband when he was ‘stretching’ her.”
“No way.”
“Way. And she was laughing. I’m telling you, bro, that door is open. If the boyfriend doesn’t step up, someone else is going to walk right in.”
My face flushes, but a powerful, dark surge of pride and lust swells in my chest alongside the shame. They’re talking about my girl. They’re analyzing her, disrespecting me, and they aren’t wrong. I did just stand there. The knowledge that Kay, my sweet, shy Kay, can walk into a room and reduce a group of grown men to a circle of drooling, frustrated beasts—it’s electrifying. It’s a sudden, thrilling realization of how lucky I am, and how intensely desired she is. My cock is already stirring, hard just from hearing the raw, honest way they assess the situation.
I have so many questions as I exit. I stop dead in my tracks when I see Omar and Tyler talking with Kay. She has done her hair, put on a very form-fitting The Cure t-shirt, but still in her volleyball shorts. She is showing off the shorts to the guys. She does a little spin. Her ass, clad in that tight black spandex, jiggles perfectly, the bottoms of her cheeks clearly visible.
“Hey, babe! You ready to go?” she spots me and yells over.
“I ... uh ... yeah,” I stammer, my throat dry.
“Whats wrong?” She asks giving me a confused look.
“You’re still in your volleyball shorts?” I stammer, “You’re gonna wear those to the bar?”
Kay blushes and bites her lip.
“I-I forgot my change of shorts...” She says blushing,” I figured you wouldn’t mind since I know how much you love seeing me in these.”
She turns and wiggles her ass at me just like she was just doing to the guys when I walked out of the locker room.
I hesitate, fighting a war inside my own head. She’s right—I do love seeing her in them. The way the black spandex hugs her curves is hypnotic, and a part of me is thrilled she wants to show off for me. But we’re going to a bar. There will be alcohol, leering strangers, and the realization that even guys like Tyler just can’t seem to control themselves around Kay. My stomach tightens at the thought of the attention she’s going to get. I should tell her to go put on jeans. I should protect her. But looking at her hopeful, flushed face, I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be the buzzkill, controlling boyfriend who ruins her victory night.
I rub the back of my neck, swallowing my concerns, and say, “Yeah, it’s fine I guess...”
“Yay!” she cheers, and kisses me then bounces back to the guys happily.
The bar is only a few blocks away, so we decide to leave the cars in the gym lot and walk. It’s a warm night, the air thick with the smell of coming rain.
Kay and Tyler take the lead, their long, athletic strides naturally matching up. Omar and I hang back, trailing about ten feet behind them. Up ahead, the orange glow of the streetlights catches them, casting their shadows long and intertwined against the brick buildings. They lean into each other, a single silhouette moving in perfect sync, while I walk in the darker patches between lamps, watching their joined figures like a stranger passing by.
They are playful, high on the dopamine of the win. They are loud, boisterous. Kay says something that makes Tyler roar with laughter, and he reaches out to tickle her side. She shrieks, swatting his hands away, but she doesn’t move away. She dances just out of reach, hips swaying violently.
Tyler nudges her with his shoulder, almost knocking her off balance. She laughs, a bright sound that echoes off the brick buildings, and retaliates by hip-checking him. It’s a solid hit—she’s strong—but he barely moves. Instead, he wraps a thick arm around her shoulders to steady her, pulling her into his side. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into him, her head resting briefly against his bicep as they walk. From behind, his hand dangles off her shoulder, his fingers brushing the fabric of her t-shirt, dangerously close to the slope of her breast.
It looks innocent, but the undercurrent of intimacy makes the hair on my arms stand up. I walk ten feet behind with Omar, watching. Every time Tyler nudges her, a mix of cold unease and hot, confusing arousal churns in my stomach
“They’ve got good chemistry,” Omar says quietly beside me, his eyes also fixed on the pair ahead.
“Yeah,” I manage to choke out, trying to keep my voice even. “They play well together.”
“Yeah, they really are good friends,” Omar agrees, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s cool to see. Tyler’s a good guy, he looks out for her.”
The comment loosens the knot in my chest. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Omar is right. I’m projecting my own insecurities onto them. It’s just an innocent friendship.